


I'd rather watch my kingdom fall (I want it all or not at all)

by sebvettels



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 19:25:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19279603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebvettels/pseuds/sebvettels
Summary: Marc Márquez on his Austin victories





	I'd rather watch my kingdom fall (I want it all or not at all)

**Lust || 2013**

Marc Márquez Alentà wakes up to a Sunday full of hope. He smells victory the moment his feet hit the entrance of the pit. He sees a vision of himself on the very highest spot of the podium the second before the lights go out. His mind is in a frenzied state of lust. It is bloodlust, a lust for victory.

He doesn’t remember anything when he pulls his bike to the _parc ferme_. Can’t hear anything except the rumble of his bike and the blood rushing on his ears. He barely turns off the bike when reality sinks in. 

He wins. 

_He fucking wins._

He stands under the sun and the flags and watches as the light hits the trophy. _His trophy_. He looks down and sees his team and his family and grins. 

It is only his third race in the premier class. Marc doesn’t know much, but he knows one thing. This is not the end, as his mind has already started picturing future victories, this is just the start.

Let it begins.

 

**Greed || 2014**

Marc smiles at the top of the podium, mind flashing back to the race he has just won. A second in row, exactly how it is last year. Last year he stood here, right at this step as a rookie with two world championships of lower classes on his belt. 

Today, he stands there, a one-time MotoGP world champion. He has risen up against the talks, the people who don’t believe him. He has risen up and he has won. 

 _Luck_ , they had whispered when he won last season,  _it is luck_. Then they said again,  _one day your luck will run out, and there will be nothing more_.

Marc lifts the trophy now,  _let them doubt_ , a vicious voice inside his mind snarls. He will prove them wrong. He will win and win and the only thing they can do is swallowing their words back.

_Watch me, I will win. More and more and more will come._

_I will never stop._

They may call it greed. But as he sprays the champagne, Marc knows it’s his calling.

_It’s in his blood._

 

**Pride || 2015**

Third time’s a charm. 

He has come and rode and conquered. They are all screaming his name, a mash of colours and flags. People from places he does not know. They have come for him, for Marc Márquez and he hasn’t let them down.

_He has never let anyone down._

He watches as the person on his right lifts his trophy and smiles. Inside, he is screaming and cackling with delight, with pride.

_I am better than you. I am. Not you. Not anyone. Me._

Marc shakes the nameless man’s hand, barely registering it until they hands him his trophy.  _Campeón, Campeón,_ his team sings out. The trophy glints under the sun and Marc shouts in joy, laughing as he is showered with champagne and confetti.

He is no longer a green boy. He is a household name now. A two-times MotoGP world champion. 

 _Baby Alien is no longer a baby_ , he thinks to himself, proud.

He is the best. He is the conqueror.

And conquer he will. 

 

**Wrath || 2016**

Two wins in a row. 

Return of the King. 

Marc grins. He ignores the boos. The yellows and the blues flashing in front of his eyes. He lets them be. Let them shout and scream in anger. Letting the wrath, which he doesn’t deserve, washes over him.

This will be his year. And he will emerge victoriously. Yellows and blues and bullies will not be the ones to knock him down. Let them try. They will fail.

Marc is no doctor, he is an ant.  _We are tiny_ , an angry side of him lashes out,  _but we are mighty_. Only fools will underestimate them. 

And when he is done with them, there will be no ashes left. There will be no phoenixes to rise up of.  He smirks outwardly, wrathful and twisted inside, in joy. The fight is truly on.

 

**Sloth || 2017**

Marc ignores the whispers with the laziness and casualness of someone who has been used to them. He remembers how Alex has to pinch him to stop him from laughing right on the face of a journalist who has thrown the question to him.

They say he is done, his winning days are over.

In the confines of his motorhome, he laughs and laughs until his throat goes sore. He laughs until he cries as reality crashes in. All the races he has done this year and none he has won.

 _He will win_ , he thinks, idly after his cries have subsided.

And win he does.

Marc makes delighted noises as he steps out to the podium. A perfect five out of five. 

There are no curses. His winning days are not over.

He remembers his first win here. Only 4 years ago, but somehow feels like a lifetime ago. How does time fly indeed? It makes him feel sluggish for one second, he has won so much since then, hasn’t he?

Does it matter if he didn’t win today? After all, they know how far he has come and how many things he has won.

What else is there to prove?

He shakes his head, disappointed. If his team knows the kind of thought that he is entertaining, they’ll be crushed. They’ll be upset as their rider just about to give in to the easy path, too slothful to prove himself because he thinks he’s so good.

 

**Gluttony || 2018**

Marc Márquez remains unbeatable.

He stands at the top of the podium and they dub him as King of COTA. 

_One, two, three, four, five, and finally six._

Winning isn’t a dream anymore. It is an indulgence. One he entertains in every race, every week, and even every day.

The desire rages on, excessive and licking him hot. He indulges in, winning is like breathing poisoned air. Winning is like eating your favourite food and to never stop. Overconsumption and overindulgence.

They tell him he has to let others win. That he makes these races boring. They say he kills the sport. Killing it? Racing is not for mortals. Not for those with a conscience. Racing is not earning money and giving some to those in need. 

Winning doesn’t work that way. _You don’t beg for a win, you earn it_. He shakes his head, eyes searching to the sky. 

 _I will not stop_ , he swears under his breath,  _even if I have to sell my soul to the devil_.  

 

**Envy || 2019**

Seven is the ghost number. 

Marc Márquez Alentà doesn’t believe in silly superstitions. He has won his seventh world titles just a few months ago from today. Seven and its myth hold no power over him. He is going to win this.

And he crashes out.

_He fucking crashes out._

One second, he is on the bike and then in the blink of an eye, everything slips out of his fingers. He stays there, in defeat, in shame, letting all the marshals rushes to him. His eyes are hot with unshed tears, bones turn to dust. 

He stands up and walks away, never looking back. His head hangs low as he strides down the paddock, his tears still unshed. He enters his motorhome and throws his gloves and helmet to the floor and doesn’t even flinch at the sound. 

Marc slides down to the floor, eyes empty. He can hear the hushed whispers outside his door, but he ignores them until they finally leave.

A few moments after, he reaches out for the tv remote, turning it on, and watches as Rossi leads the race.

 _It could be me_ , he thinks silently in a fit of jealousy,  _it should’ve been me._

Chasing after the seven is like chasing after ghosts, chasing after illusions. There will be no seven.

 _There will be no seven_ , it hits him like a truck. Something in him breaks at that and he lets out a scream as the race drags on. 

He keeps his eyes glued on the tv and watches as the Suzuki, _Rins_ , his mind supplies, slips past Rossi’s Yamaha at the last second. He numbly thinks to himself,  _if I had to lose the crown, better lose it to someone unknown than the devil._

He tries to be happy for that fact, but all he can muster is envy as Rins stands up there. Stands at where he has stood for the last six years. 

_The King is dead, long live The King._

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is an over dramatisation of Marc's feelings and thoughts and you probably think he's very, very ooc. i'm like feeling mentally exhausted and i just want to write and i honestly don't think much of the result so if you like it you can leave kudos or comments and if you don't like it well it's fine i'm alright with that too. also i'm open to constructive criticism so if you want to do so just write it down


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